


i saw thee beautiful; thou art despis’d

by leinthalexandra



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Endverse, M/M, POV Second Person, selfcest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-01
Updated: 2012-05-01
Packaged: 2017-11-04 15:21:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/395310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leinthalexandra/pseuds/leinthalexandra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s older, more worn down, and every bit of flesh your trembling fingertips uncover is like a tarot card turned over, revealing your future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i saw thee beautiful; thou art despis’d

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crowleyshouseplant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crowleyshouseplant/gifts).



> dean/future!dean selfcest, for sonja. ~1250 words, r.  
> uhhh...this turned out as more porn than i'd intended? eh heh...oops.

He slides the glass over to you, shining drops of dark amber liquid splashing a little over the rim.  Not that you’re thirsty, not that you want it, but the harsh burn of the alcohol in your throat is relaxing. He’s still on edge, though; he’s like a wild creature who’s always tense, never letting a moment slip by him without full evaluation and observation. It’s bizarre to see your face looking back at you, no mirror glass or knowledge that this is a dream to take away the full reality of the moment. A small smirk slips across his lips. It shouldn’t catch your eye as much as it does, but…

Carefully, he sets his glass on the table; you do the same. He steps toward you, slowly, comes close enough that you should be able to feel the heat of him, but you can’t. You want to reach out, touch his skin, see how cold he is, if it’s anything comparable to the look in his eyes. Nothing but a walking corpse, you can almost hear him thinking. Your own eyes go wide as he shoves you hard against the wall of the cabin, hands gripping your shoulders tight enough to leave a bruise.

The back of your skull collides with the wood, and it should hurt but somehow it doesn’t. It feels like something you need, something you both haven’t found in a long time. This can’t possibly be happening, you think; somehow you must have fallen headlong into sleep after so long without it, and now it doesn’t matter, none of it matters, so you reach out.

You reach out to grab the collar of his jacket, feeling the stiff fabric clenched between your fingers. Pull him closer until your body and his are coming back together, like you’re just pieces of the same Dean Winchester split in two, returning to one another and becoming whole again. He presses you closer in against the wall, skin cold and breath hot against your neck. Your own hands seem to move of their own accord, tugging his jacket down his arms, tracing the contours of a body you know so well, and yet there’s still something different.

He’s older, more worn down, and every bit of flesh your trembling fingertips uncover is like a tarot card turned over, revealing your future. In turn, he is stoic, silent, and you aren’t quite sure what’s going on but you can’t seem to stop yourself, either of you, and neither can he. You only realize that your own jacket and shirt are gone when you feel the wood panels digging into your back, rough against your flesh. His hands seem to gravitate towards your hips, yours are caught at his neck, and you want to see if you can pull him in closer.

Finally, finally your lips meet one another, merging, returning to what you already know, and yet it’s nothing like you’ve ever known or can understand, even now. He kisses like he’s at war, like he wants to find a safe place to hide down deep inside your ribcage, and his thumbs press and dig in against your hipbones, the backs of your thighs, through the rough denim of your jeans. You slide one hand down, and his skin is a war story, so many tales that you know and some that you don’t written deep within the scars.

His flesh against yours feels strange, yet a bit like coming home, and you want more, need it; and he needs it too, because he’s you, and maybe you can stop the nearly hundred-years’ war that you’ve both been fighting since before you can remember. It’s what makes you curl your fingers in the belt loops of his jeans and urge him closer, feeling his cock hard against yours, and that’s where you’re certain there’s nothing different about you. He groans, mouth slack where it still presses against your lips, and you bite down, drawing just a little blood, but it’s enough. Both of you hands reach down, fumbling, curling against one another’s fingers in loose, intimate gestures, and between the two of you manage to undo the zippers on both of your jeans.

He wraps an arm around your lower back, the other hitching up your leg to curve around his own waist; hoists you up against the wall just so, rolls his hips and you try to match him, knowing that this is going to be quick and messy and brutal but you can’t stop, either of you, have to see this through all the way to the end. You grab a fistful of his short-cropped hair and tug on it, dragging his lips back up to meet your own.

Your feet graze his jeans with every thrust he makes, and although you love the sensation of it, you wish, bizarrely, that you could feel something else too—the sense of satin and silk, caressing, and oh, god, the ache it sends through you and tearing the groan out of his mouth makes you wonder if he’s thinking about it too; if only you’d known, but there’s no way you could have ever expected this, so you’ll just think of it, secret and tucked away like you still have them hidden in the very bottom of your suitcase, even though they’re far too small these days; the reminder of yourself and what you know to be true, the sense of being Dean and in more ways than just the what you see, what you get; and you open your eyes—when had you closed them?—and catch the glint in his, and you know, you know now that he’s thinking it too.

You can’t help but dig your fingers into the flesh of his back, drop a brief kiss to the top of his head—inhaling, you can still smell the shampoo; somehow, even in this bleak future, they can manage to find it and it’s the scented kind, the one he—the one you like the most, and you won’t thank heaven for small mercies.

He presses you back, harder, rhythm getting faster, less held-together, and he’s about to let go; you do the only think you can do and hold him close, the closest and the most truthful you’ve probably ever been with yourself, and it’s this other you who needs to feel it. Feel the redemption, the forgiveness, the ‘I understand now,’ the acknowledgment of how you’re both broken and bitter and burnt-out from the inside. The heat sparks low and tight in your stomach, and he’s so far gone and has crawled his way so deep into your veins that you think he’s managed it, managed to carve out a place to keep himself hidden and safe and secret.

The white-hot streak is building and you’re both about to hit the edge when he grabs your wrists and pins them next to either side of your head, grazing his thumbs gently against the inside, brushing a kiss against your lips so quick it almost didn’t happen, and that—that’s what breaks you both, sends you crashing down together, and it’s nothing but a wave and a storm in your heads, and now…

Now his skin is warm against you; makes him feel alive where he never did before, and you remember that you’re both only human. You run your hand lightly down his spine, and drink in his shivers, his twitches in the aftermath.


End file.
